Anchored Down
by Assassination
Summary: Everyone was under the impression he was becoming unstable, though he thought that he was perfectly fine. -R&R please, title may be temporary
1. Chapter 1

**Assassination's note:** Yeah...here I go again, making yet _another_ story - god forbid I add more to work on than I already do. So, let's cover the basics as to how this came to be: I was listening to music, browsing my favorites on dA and ran across Dark Side Altair - I think you know where this is heading. Now, thing is, I saw that picture before and was tempted (you wouldn't believe _how_ tempted) to make a story from it. So when I saw it again the bloody 'plot bunny' popped up once again and then my friend just _had_ to feed it...so...yep. Here it is. Let's see how long this lasts, eh?  
Also...the end of this chapter might not be satisfactory. Sorry about that.

* * *

Ever since he'd become Grand Master of the Creed, Altair had locked himself away in his study. The Apple rested in the far right corner of the table, a simple dusky brown, not having called his attention ever since he had touched it the first time. When it was warm, tempting him to just reach out and touch. And touch he had, the Syrian had released his Master to go and pick it up.

He wasn't able to explain how magnificent it had felt to hold such power in his hands. He couldn't even fathom what else this object could do, aside from what he'd already seen. Yet, even if it beckoned him into its embrace, Altair had steeled himself to prove his mentor wrong. To destroy the accursed Piece of Eden.

It did not come to pass. The assassin hadn't stayed true to his word when he saw a map be shown, shining brightly with dots located in specific areas, pinpointing where other Pieces of Eden were.

He knew it was pathetic, that it was a terrible idea, when he used that one thing as an excuse to keep the Apple intact. When it was obvious that he'd been captured and enslaved by the damned object. Malik had noticed this but said nothing to sway his comrade's decision on the matter.

He doubted that he could either way.

But many suns and many moons had passed since that day, the Apple not doing a single thing besides sitting there idly. As if taunting him, saying, "You know you want more. Why not just take it? Just hold me and all shall be yours."

Oh, how he wanted to. Altair knew that just one touch may be his last, that he may lose himself to the object if he gave in. It was maddening.

He peered over to the Apple, his hand pausing in its scrawling actions, the tip of his quill lifted enough so that he wouldn't accidentally write something to ruin his report. The man swallowed thickly, eyes trained on the orb, hawk-like observation. He knew he shouldn't touch it, that he should just ignore it, return to what he was doing. Shouldn't chance a single graze of fingertips since Maria was heavy with child.

But, oh, how he wanted to touch it. Absorb more knowledge. Learn more.

Have more control. Absolute.

Want. The want and desire for what the Apple held, what it could show and give was becoming too much. This is exactly what his mentor had meant, surely, telling him he wouldn't be able to stop the unquenchable thirst.

Altair's hand tightened on the quill. He'd rather be damned than be possessed by such trivialities.

There were whispers though, he could hear them. Jumbled up, overlapping one another, beckoning him, taunting. It was almost like white noise, all leading up to the same thing, "_Hold...me._"

Closing his eyes tightly, he lowered his head, lifting his right hand to cover his face. Indeed, this was maddening. The voices wouldn't stop, kept on prattling on and shouting occasionally, screaming at him. Slowly, ever so slowly, Altair shifted his hand to cover the lower half of his face and dug his nails into his skin. His eyes were on the parchment settled on the table.

The inked lines were blurring, a soft glow beginning to spread over them.

He knew then that the Apple was calling to him. A powerful pull, unrelenting, not stopping, insistent that the Grand Master pay attention to it.

"_Hold...me._"

_Damn you._ Altair's jaw clenched, closing his eyes, trying to wretch away from the tug. To the demands that the orb was displaying. _Damn you._

"_Hold me._"

Bright yellow hues opened slowly, turning his head away as he set the feather down, his opposite hand falling from his face to curl into a loose fist. No. He couldn't give in, not with the Creed depending on him to lead them, to guide them. Not while his wife needed him, his love, his touch, his care. Not when he'd finally patched things up with Malik, both of them working together to steer the Order in the right direction.

Not while there were still -

"_Hold me._"

Altair slammed his fist against the desk, his eyes open and veering over to the glowing Piece of Eden. His pupils were blown wide, knowing exactly what he'd encounter if he reached out and take hold of it.

A sickening pleasure, drowning in the waves, perhaps even never come out of the embrace. Such a welcoming embrace it was. So foreign, tempting, sinful, delightful...but so poisonous. It was biting into the forbidden fruit, one he shouldn't sink his teeth into any more. That he should have cut himself off from, shouldn't have bitten into the first time.

Like a drug. It was a godforsaken drug. Addictive.

"_Hold me and you shall receive._"

It was like signing a contract with the devil.

Even though all this ran through his mind, all the warnings obvious and stated, the assassin reached out for the Apple. It pulsed, the glow becoming brighter, the feeling of warmth tickling his senses.

The tips of his fingers brushed over the orb.

"_De...ond..._"

Before he could blink and question what the voices had rasped out, Altair was blinded by the bright light. He quickly moved his left hand to shield his eyes, tensing but grabbing hold of the Apple regardless, which was hot under his palm. The voices had ceased their cries but the Grand Master inhaled sharply, hunching forth as if he'd been punched in the gut, his eyes slammed shut as his lips parted to pant.

It happened again, knocking him to his knees.

Altair was gasping for breath at this point as he lowered his hand, taking in his surroundings, whipping his head from side to side. There was nothing in the room - no, this was no room. More like white, empty, space with flickering images and odd sounds accompanying them.

Pressing his left hand to the 'ground,' the assassin stood. He turned slowly, taking in the expanse of the area to see no end in sight, to then glance down at the Apple that had returned to its brown state. The man cursed it, with all his being, demanding to know where he was as he tightened his hold on it, teeth bared. His sun colored irises were wild, akin to a rabid animal that was caged.

Trapped. To never be released.

He cursed once more, realizing it had been a terrible idea to give into the Apple's pull.

"_Des...nd._" The voices returned, scratching relentlessly against his ear drums, having Altair drop the orb to cover them with a cringe. "_...ond._"

_I do not understand..._

"_Find..._"

The Syrian clamped his eyes shut once more, the voices once again overlapping, screaming, demanding. His fingers scrambled for surface, sliding through his short hair. He bunched his shoulders up, teeth grit before crying out at the intensity that the voices were raising to.

"_...shall receive!_"

Altair's eyes snapped open once the world shook, watching in horror as the ground began to crack. Break. As if the pressure had been too much for it to handle.

He picked up the Piece of Eden, quickly, and stuffed it into his pouch before breaking into a sprint. His lips were formed in a thin line, forcing himself to go faster. Faster, faster, he had to find a safe place. Solid ground. The assassin hazarded a glance over his shoulder, seeing that the world was crumbling around him, catching up, about to swallow him whole.

Drag him down into the depths.

Golden hues snapped forth, breath coming in hastily, panic taking hold on him and squeezing. Telling him that he wouldn't make it, telling him it was too late. That he'd given up everything for _nothing_.

It was then that the surface below him crumbled and he fell with a desperate hand reaching out for leverage, to halt his descent. Only to find none.

He fell into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Assassination's note: **Yeah, I know, the ending to this chapter might be lame - just a head's up. It was kinda rushed. The only thing I can say I'm proud of is that I _did not_ drop this story like a brick. Also, forgive me if the writing seems stiff and whatnot. I've come to realize that I can't really draw and write stories at the same time, need to focus on one or the other, y'know?

* * *

Altair opened his eyes, for a moment not feeling anything before pain assaulted his system. His back snapped up in an arch, nails scrapping at the dark mass beneath him as the Syrian's lips parted, teeth bared whilst he sucked in a breath. The assassin's muscles tensed at the sensation of invisible hands caressing, tugging, grabbing and clawing at his form.

Almost as if they were trying to strip him down to nothing and then tear his flesh away.

With a sharp inhale, the Grand Master lurched forth, his right hand placing itself atop the Apple. His honey colored eyes wide and panicked, darting about from side to side, trying to see exactly where he was but only saw darkness as far as the eye could see.

He lowered his hand, resting the palm against the ground as he regulated his breathing. There was nothing around him. No sounds besides his breathing, no voices, no one - nothing.

Was this the Apple casting him aside? Telling him he was of no use anymore? Or was this something else entirely...?

Slowly the tanned man stood, his footing a bit off for the first few steps he took. Gritting his teeth, Altair cast a glance over his shoulder, turning slowly to face what seemed to be like a face making itself visible. He couldn't be sure what it was and felt his stomach twist, flip in a disgusted manner once a candle flickered to life. The man took a step back once the light illuminated the face.

A face that had no eyes, no nose and no lips.

What kind of madness was this?

There was a soft gust of air tickling his ear, as if whispering, "_Run._"

Run he did. Altair turned sharply on his heel, darting down some invisible corridor that lit itself as he went on. His leather soles tapping the, what sounded, like stone tiling in a desperate manner. Desperate to escape the faceless entity, to not find out what it could do if it got its hands on him, what would happen if he let it get closer than it had.

Swallowing thickly, the brunet pushed himself a bit harder. The whispers returning, taunting him.

"_We are going to get you,_" they sang, "_we are going to get you._"

Whoever this 'we' was, he didn't want to know.

A soft light began to glow from his pouch, Altair blinking and glancing over his shoulder to his pouch that was just barely hiding the blinding orb that was now a beacon to show that 'thing' where he was exactly. Without a second thought, he reached for it.

* * *

A certain figure shifted beneath the blanket draped over them. They let out a low groan, rolling over to rest upon their back as dazed chocolate eyes cracked open. There was beams from the sun creeping through the blinds, making its way over to the bed. As if it were a routinely practice, the person sat up. It was almost time for their door to open, a woman demanding they wake and get down to business.

As if on cue, said action and woman happened.

Her hair was tied up in a ponytail, twisted into a secure bun. Azure irises narrowed with her face contorted in an exhausted yet irritated manner, as if she hadn't gotten much sleep. "Let's go, Desmond."

He sighed, twisting about to set his socked feet onto the floor.

Desmond rose his left hand to rub his face, taking a few more moments to rub the back of his neck with extra care. Why? He doesn't know, he just does. The man hadn't bothered questioning his actions much since this whole business with the Animus 2.0 started. The man could give Rebecca points for making it more comfortable and not letting it heat up to the point it felt as if his ass would be set on fire at any minute.

Inwardly the brunet chuckled at the thought before finally standing. Ezio couldn't be kept waiting, after all.

The American heaved a sigh as he went about to tug on his jacket and shoes, they'd be doing laundry later on today so he didn't honestly see the point in changing his boxers at this point when he could do so later and not really dirty the clean pair. Crouching, Desmond set about tying his shoelaces, staring down at his hands in a semi-tired fashion.

He was still tired but didn't want to complain. Everyone was on edge and even the tiniest setback could screw everything up.

That and he felt bad that Lucy was under all this pressure. What with being an assassin, having broken him out of Abstergo, which was a little touch and go, and not to mention...oh, yeah. Abstergo. Templars. Yeah.

Once he finished getting his shoes secure, Desmond stood, only to then sway with a low, "Whoa," as he placed his right hand over his face.

The world was spinning at this point, his stomach flipping in an uncomfortable fashion and even the feel of immense pressure on the back of his head. Like something was trying to force itself inside, squirming around to attempt to take control and make him the passenger for whatever ride it wanted to take him on. For a moment he wondered if this was how Altair or Ezio would feel _if_ they could sense him invading their memories.

Though that thought process slammed its brakes once the sudden intruding sensation ceased.

He soon felt extremely unstable at this point, his left hand pressed against the wall as he panted into his palm. The assassin-in-training's eyes were clenched shut, stinging from the small tears gathering to the edges of his lashes. Hunching over, Desmond curled his fingers while his shoulders shook, bile raising in his throat before forcing it back down into the depths of his stomach.

No. No, he did _not_ need this right now.

Brown eyes opened slowly once Desmond lowered his hand, covering his mouth as he swallowed harshly. What the fuck was _that_? It wasn't like any headache or migraine he's had before...there had never been anything as disturbing as that. By disturbing he meant something that almost got you to the point of blowing chunks.

He breathed in and out. In. Out.

Once the American was sure he was as able to move without the possibility of giving away the near 'incident,' he made his way out to the room with the Animus, greeted by an energetic Rebecca and a snarky Shaun. Whom he gave a snippy comeback to before offering a smile to the mechanic.

"Whenever you're ready, Desmond." the dark haired Crane grinned, turning her attention back to the screen as she waited for her comrade to situate himself.

Casting a glance to the machine, Desmond pursed his lips at the distrusting vibe that coursed through his system. As if it wasn't his emotions but whatever it was that was from earlier - the assassin-in-training shook his head, shoving the unwanted feeling aside. It had to be the Bleeding Effect, just had to be. Deciding that was the only logical explanation, he moved to sit down.

Rebecca pushed away from her desk, making her way over to the man and hooked him up.


End file.
